


Fighting For Pleasure

by Aegrota



Category: Tekken (Video Games)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Kazuya's POV, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, post tekken 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26770297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegrota/pseuds/Aegrota
Summary: After having killed Heihachi, Kazuya finds that achieving one's lifelong goal doesn't bring fulfillment. It brings emptiness.He wanders around the world, seeking to fill that void in his heart that the hatred for Heihachi used to occupy.Will he find that the gods finally smiled at him or is he nothing but a devil?
Relationships: Kazuya Mishima/Original Male Characters
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first Tekken fanfic, yaaaay!   
> I lovelovelove Kazuya Mishima with all my heart and I want nothing more than to see him redeemed as the antihero I always so wanted him to be. Curse you, Namco! 
> 
> This is taking place after Tekken 7 and thus, of course, the events of it are not canon, and the way I am planning this fic to go down, I doubt they will ever be. I just love happy endings, okay? 
> 
> I will add more tags as the story progresses, especially for the smut, because I still haven't decided what exactly the smut will entail.   
> Hope you enjoy! ^_^

Kazuya discovered that once one finally achieves their lifelong goal, instead of fulfillment, there is only emptiness to find.    
He’s been chained by the hatred for his father for as long as he could remember, and now that the old man has finally gotten what he deserved, Kazuya still got no peace.    
  
He told himself that was because Jin was still out there and that fight was still to take place and determine who will be left standing, but he never felt the same fire in his heart urging him to take his son on as he did his father.    
  
At times, after his last battle with Heihachi, Kazuya would lie in bed at night and this one thought would creep up on him.    
Did Jin hate him the same way he hated Heihachi?    
If so, was it justice for Jin to get the same vengeance he got on his own father?    
  
The Devil in him had been quiet for the longest time and Kazuya wasn’t used to there being just him in his mind, because that side of him knew that Jin was a better man than he was. He was doomed to be this remorseless, irredeemable abomination from the start, with a psychopath for a father and a demonic mother, causing him to lead a life of hatred and bloodshed.   
  
Jin stood a chance. His mother was Kazama Jun.    
Over the decades, Kazuya hadn’t allowed himself much thought of her, because thinking of her brought only guilt and shame, emotions foreign and terrifying to someone like him.   
  
Kazuya knew what innocence was. He knew that Jun didn’t deserve to ever even meet a man such as himself, let alone have a cursed child.    
  
Will the same happen with that schoolgirl with pigtails and Jin?    
That girl was as pure and innocent as Jun. Will Jin lead to her demise the way his bloodline always led to their women’s demise?   
  
He traveled far after he killed Heihachi, staying in bustling cities or remote mountains, yet nothing, no crowd, no waterfall, no noise or silence, brought any answers or any peace.   
He waited for Jin to get his vengeance.    
  
A year passed.    
There was to be no King Of Iron Fist Tournament this year. There was only silence and Kazuya’s orders to be alerted only if Jin reappeared.    
In the meantime, he traveled, trying to indulge himself in all the pleasures the life he led up to this point never gave him much of.   
  
Good food. Sex. Movies. Museums. Festivals and small tournaments of various kinds. He observed normal people doing normal things and he envied them. A young boy holding his parents’ hands on a small street in China lingered in his mind for months. Kazuya knew Chinese and he wished he didn’t that day. The mother asked the boy what he wanted for dinner and the father promised him to play soccer with him the next day.    
  
Just a normal family. The wife smiled at her husband and he smiled back, causing the boy to look up and smile, too.    
  
The Devil would have killed them for this.   
Kazuya just swallowed something bitter and walked in the opposite direction.   
  
That opposite direction led him to a big, yet old, nearly run-down, dojo. The pillars still held strong, but the paint was faded and peeling, the roof clumsily patched up after perhaps a hailstorm, the trees around the building older than he was, wild and untamed, with grass up to his hips and only a beatdown dust path with a few barely visible stones leading to the large door that was wide open.    
  
He heard rhythmic tapping of skin against the wood and saw a long shadow moving across the surprisingly clean floor.    
His favorite sneakers made no sound as he approached and stood in the broad doorway, wanting to see the practitioner.    
  
He was young, with long, straight black hair gathered into a tight bun, wearing faded black sweatpants and a similarly old, loose T-shirt with a peeling white logo on the back. An open palm in a circle. The board above the door was new, with clumsily written, barely correct Chinese characters informing one that this was the Black Friday dojo.    
  
Kazuya rolled his eyes at the name of the establishment as he watched the young man.    
He seemed slightly shorter than Kazuya himself and much lither, long limbs moving gracefully and open palms connecting to the well-used wooden dummy as he practiced, a light sheen of sweat on his brow.    
He could attack this man right here and now, beat him to a bloody pulp and leave, hopefully slightly better after having seen that family.    
  
Yet, he made no move to do so.   
This went on for a while, only the sounds of wood being hit and the man’s breath in the large room, and Kazuya wondered how come the man is not acknowledging his presence. His fighting style was simple, resembling that of the man named Leroy that Kazuya heard of, yet never fought. The desire for adrenaline blossomed in his chest.    
  
“Fight me.”    
  
His deep voice, hoarse from unuse, echoed in the large sunlit dojo, the specks of dust floating in the air.   
The man kept practicing as if nothing happened.    
Was he deaf?   
Well, that was just too damn bad.    
  
He charged at the man, jumping into a big slash kick aimed straight for his head. He never noticed when the man dodged, but he felt his extended leg being grabbed and an elbow dropping straight above his knee. He roared in pain, quickly realizing two things.    
  
One, his bone was not broken.    
Two, it was not for the man’s lack of skill to do so.    
  
The man laughed, getting behind Kazuya’s sprawled on the floor form:    
  
“You interrupt my afternoon practice for this?”    
  
So, he was not deaf after all.    
  
“You’re probably in way over your head, geezer. I suggest you give up and I might even agree to teach you how to not attack like a bull in a china shop!”    
  
His Chinese was heavily accented, the grammar and the tones shaky, and it was only the context that made Kazuya understand what he said. Lee would have been appalled by how he spoke.    
  
Perhaps it was the thought of his adoptive brother or the fact that this brat called him a geezer, but Kazuya jumps to his feet with renewed vigor, ignoring the pain in his leg as he tries to punch the man. He gets blocked and successfully blocks his retaliation. They brawl up close, dodging and blocking, each unable to land a hit for the longest time, and Kazuya’s blood is roaring in his ears. This boy is good. It’s been a while since he’s enjoyed a fight, truly enjoyed it.    
  
He fought for his life for so long.    
He never fought for pleasure anymore.    
  
The boy’s eyes are big and green, sweat in his brows and long strands sticking to his forehead and temples, each hit an open palm, a broad grin on his face as they dance. His limbs slide and bypass, almost like snakes, his entire body like water.    
He’s enjoying this, too.    
  
His palm connects with Kazuya’s jaw and even as it echoes, Kazuya knows the boy diverted it from his nose.    
Subdual. Non-threatening. This is just fun sparring.    
  
He never pulls back, Kazuya soon notices. He pushes forward and dodges to the side, but he never steps back, wishing to pin Kazuya to a wall. Great. Kazuya so loves stopping those who only charge forward in their tracks.   
  
The first big hit that connects is his uppercut. A godfist. No electricity. Just fun.    
  
The boy laughs even through pain as his upper body sways back from the hit and Kazuya almost misses how he uses that to extend the range of the kick aimed at his earlier-injured knee. He manages to grab the boy’s leg and pull him closer, his flushed face inches away from his as he keeps slowly lifting his leg, disrupting his balance:   
  
“Tell me your name.”    
  
Again, that huge grin. The boy’s teeth are white, with sharp fangs and both his lateral incisors sticking out slightly, making him look even younger than he is. He is probably Jin’s age.    
  
“Beat me and I might.”    
  
Kazuya lifts the boy’s leg further, something in him pleased when he grunts in discomfort:   
  
“I already have.”    
  
He barely hears the boy clicking his tongue before he bends his leg in Kazuya’s grasp, his knee hitting him in the ribs and he tugs to pull free, Kazuya allowing him. This is too much fun to be over this quickly.   
  
It is especially riveting when he grabs the boy’s arm, lifting his leg to kick both sides of his head and the boy abruptly crouches into a slide, knocking Kazuya’s weight-bearing leg full-force and they tumble to the floor together, the boy climbing him, his elbow pressed against Kazuya’s throat:   
  
“Doesn’t look that way to me.”    
  
He’s panting heavily, a droplet of sweat sliding down his face and onto Kazuya’s. Kazuya can feel the smell of his fresh sweat and the lingering traces of the fragrance of detergent from his clothes. More strands have fallen out of his bun and his cheeks are pink with exertion, Kazuya feeling each subtle shift in the taut muscles as he’s pressed into the wooden floor by the warm weight and that’s when he feels it, for only a brief moment before the boy shifts, however, Kazuya is absolutely certain he didn’t imagine it.    
  
The boy has an erection.    
  
He laughs, mismatched eyes locked onto his green ones as he effortlessly flips them and ends up pinning the boy to the floor instead. He’s much heavier and with more raw strength, knowing the boy cannot reverse this nearly as easily and he grips his neck tight, his other hand pinning his wrist to the floor with Kazuya’s weight, his thigh pressing into the younger man’s crotch until he groans:   
  
“And what is this? Do you enjoy flirting with death?”    
  
It is a low, hoarse murmur. It’s been several days since Kazuya spoke to anyone.    
  
The boy grins again, no fear in his eyes as he doesn’t even try to get out of Kazuya’s grip:    
  
“Perhaps. Or maybe I just have a thing for old guys.”    
  
Kazuya’s crimson eye flashes and he presses against the boy’s neck harder:   
  
“I could crush your windpipe right now.”    
  
The boy chuckles even as he struggles to take a full breath, eyes flitting to Kazuya’s crotch in his dark jeans:   
  
“Yet, you won’t. You enjoy feeling like you’ve won?”    
  
He is so preoccupied with holding his new acquaintance in check that he didn’t even notice he got hard himself. When was the last time that happened? Probably during some fight with Lee.    
He is about to retort when the boy winks at him, murmuring:   
  
“You can call me Vanya.”    
  
Kazuya releases some pressure from his neck and Vanya takes a hungry gulp of air, wiggling his dark eyebrows:   
  
“How about you? Or should I just keep calling you a gee…”    
  
He doesn’t get to finish that as he has to dodge Kazuya’s fist aimed at his face and it instead punches at the wood, cracking it and Kazuya leans in, the glow from his red eye painting Vanya’s face red:   
  
“Kazuya.”    
  
Vanya looks at his fist, still planted in his floor:   
  
“Well, you just ruined my floor, Kazuya. I will have to ask you to pay for it.”    
  
“I could buy you, this sorry dump and everything you could ever own with loose change in my pockets, you insolent, pathetic whelp.”    
  
He’s growling now, deep down surprised at how not even this is stirring the Devil.   
  
“Oh, I love it when you talk dirty to me like that.”    
  
Vanya still seems nothing but pleased with himself and Kazuya briefly thinks how he must be insane.   
  
“But now, unless you plan to fuck me into this floor, I would kindly ask you to get off of me. You’re a big boy and you’re heavy.”    
  
Kazuya does as told, but grabs Vanya’s neck again and lifts him off the floor as he himself stands up:   
  
“Do you really not know who you’re messing with? I can snap you like a twig!”    
  
That last sentence rings in his ears and Kazuya briefly freezes. That was what Heihachi always used to say. He lets Vanya go and the boy crumples to the floor, coughing and massaging his neck, red with angry fingermarks.   
  
Kazuya pulls out a thick wad of bills from his pocket and throws it on the floor in front of Vanya as he turns to leave.    
Vanya’s voice makes him stop:    
  
“I enjoyed fighting you. Stop by anytime.”    
  
Kazuya smirks to himself and nods as he walks through the door. 


	2. Chapter 2

He ended up staying in that town for the following few months. It wasn’t like he was on a strict itinerary or had any other pressing matters to attend to. It is the 21st century, he could do his work remotely. He ended up moving from the only hotel this small place offered to a rented house on top of a hill. It was not too large, but it was the most luxurious place he could find here. He enjoyed it, unable to remember when the last time he was just existing was.    
  
Going to the supermarket, having coffee on the porch, jogging uphill and through a forest, visiting one of the few small bars in the place. He wore sunglasses due to his mismatched eyes and was oddly satisfied when nobody ever seemed to recognize him. Even the stories of the Zaibatsu’s horrors under Jin a couple of years ago either didn’t seem to have reached this place or were already old news.    
Either way, an odd feeling settled itself in Kazuya’s chest and he initially kept looking over his shoulder, wondering if that was his intuition warning him of danger, but nobody seemed to pay him much mind.    
  
It was only during his visits to the Black Friday dojo that he could feel truly at ease, doing what he does best.    
Vanya was always up for sparring with him and Kazuya soon realized how this works. The adrenaline would always cause both of them to get aroused, but then, the only thing happening would be banter and teasing.   
  
Kazuya was a patient man, but this time around, he didn’t even know what he was waiting for.    
Vanya didn’t talk much, or rather, he didn’t  _ say  _ much of importance, nor did he ever ask and for the time being, Kazuya was alright with that.    
  
He was using the boy to get some entertainment and training with a worthy opponent, which the boy, in his early 20s as he was, definitely managed to be.    
How good would he be at Kazuya’s age?    
  
He didn’t notice any supernatural power in him, or rather, not the kind he… feared? Anticipated? Desired? It was hard to say.    
He was exceptional in a way a human may be. He was not harboring a demon inside him. Nobody harboring a demon could seem so at peace, Kazuya thought.    
  
His own demon had been dormant for the longest time and Kazuya was not sure how to feel about that. Not even the fights with the boy stirred him and where Kazuya would have perceived that as weakness mere months ago, now he felt… fine with that.    
  
He was approaching 50, yet, he barely knew himself because he never got to shine next to the damned creature.    
  
  
Vanya didn’t have many students. Over the months, Kazuya had only ever seen three, a young, fat guy, a tall, lanky one, and one that was always broody and quiet. They were not good by any stretch of the imagination, but Kazuya still often found himself sitting on the dojo’s steps, enjoying tea as he watched them train.    
  
It should have been a waste of time, but he loved watching normal people strive to be the best they could be with their normal circumstances.    
  
Or he just loved watching Vanya.    
The boy was different around his students, his mocking, smartass demeanor gone as he would patiently show and explain things over and over again, insisting on the correct form in a way that initially angered Kazuya, and yet he found himself staring at him and absorbing his every word like he was once again that small child instructed to land a hit on his father on top of that mountain.    
  
He never berated his students. He never called them pathetic, or failures, or worms. He never compromised what he taught, either, but he praised them and goaded them in a way that was fun, warm, even friendly. Kazuya reeled back when they, even exhausted and sweaty as they were, always smiled happily and patted his shoulder after the practice, always leaving with spring in their step. They made progress, but it was so slow for Kazuya’s liking and after weeks of observing, he finally decided to say as much:   
  
“They’re not learning anything with how lenient you are with them.”    
  
The students had just left and it was time for the two of them to practice and Vanya was moving the wooden dummy so they would have more room:   
  
“Whatever do you mean?” He grinned, wiggling his eyebrows as he started stretching some more. Fighting Kazuya required a lot of warming up.    
  
“You know what I mean. You’ve been showing them only the most basic of things for weeks.”    
  
“The most basic things are the most important things. But that’s not all they’re learning here, anyway.”    
  
Kazuya paused cracking his knuckles to glare at him:   
  
“Stop speaking in cryptic crap.”    
  
Vanya laughed, lifting a leg parallel with his body to stretch it:   
  
“They’re not happy, as you may have noticed. Nor do they have very good lives. They’re teenagers, meaning that, if at this time nobody shows any faith in them and helps them build some healthy confidence and friendships… they might turn into unhappy adults. And then who knows if they will ever unlearn that. People don’t bother with giving the benefit of the doubt to grown-ass people acting out. And they usually act out because they need help, they need some warmth, they need a friend but don’t know how to make one. If all you ever receive in your formative years is animosity and humiliation, that’s all you later know how to give.”    
  
Kazuya felt his fists clench as his eye glowed at Vanya. His pulse quickened and he belatedly realized that the hot feeling prickling at his skin is not anger, but shame.   
  
“And what do you get out of all that?” He barked at the boy, annoyed that he, as young as he was, spoke and thought like this.    
  
Vanya started stretching out his other leg, giggling:   
  
“I get to feel like I helped someone. That way, I am not a waste of space either.”    
  
Kazuya won their brawl that day surprisingly easily and as he pressed Vanya’s body against a wall, he bared his teeth at him, voice menacing as their noses almost touched:   
  
“You let me win.”    
  
He got used to Vanya never fearing him in the slightest, but the apologetic look on his face is new, his skin glistening with sweat as he sighs:   
  
“I didn’t. I’m just very tired today.”    
  
“Tired means you can get killed in a real fight.”    
  
Kazuya presses against him even further, the familiarity of body heat and their bulges brushing together becoming oddly reassuring at this point.    
  
“You often talk about real fights.” Vanya muses, looking at the scars on Kazuya’s cheeks:   
  
“You had many of those?”    
  
“That is none of your business.”    
  
“You’re probably right.” Vanya shrugs, a small smile spreading on his face:   
  
“I had a few as well.”    
  
Kazuya’s eyes narrow as he surveys his face, so young and carefree:   
  
“Don’t lie.”    
  
“I have never lied to you, regardless of how you keep thinking otherwise. I’ve had a few. They leave one tired. Empty. They leave you without a purpose once you finally win them. I never wanted to have to fight them in the first place, and then I had to devote everything to winning them. So, what do I do now? Who even am I now without my enemy to define me?”    
  
Kazuya’s heart is racing, and it’s not from their sparring, he barely even broke a sweat. But he wants Vanya to shut up, to stop this because he feels cornered, figured out, his chain yanked, and Kazuya hates his chain being yanked because he hates being chained, pinned down, helpless. So, his body acts before his mind does and he slams his mouth against Vanya’s to shut him up.    
The kiss is violent, bruising, their teeth clashing and Kazuya’s tongue breaching into Vanya’s without hesitation, tasting somebody’s blood and the mixture of Vanya’s taste and some alcohol, there only in traces and as he keeps pressing on, stealing all of the younger man’s oxygen, his grip hard as iron on his wrists, he finds nothing but acceptance. Vanya doesn’t struggle against him, perhaps for the first time since they met. He returns the overwhelming kiss and allows Kazuya to do whatever he wants.   
  
They finally part, Vanya panting as the small string of saliva between them breaks and he licks his bleeding bottom lip, his green eyes narrowing as he smiles at Kazuya:   
  
  
  
“Did you want to do that or did you just want me to shut up?”    
  
Kazuya is still keeping his wrists pinned to the wall in an iron grip, his short nails biting into the soft skin to leave small crescent moon marks. He scowls:    
  
“You talk too much.”    
  
Vanya laughs quietly, a fresh drop of blood glistening on his lip as he arches into Kazuya:    
  
“In that case, I like your preferred method of shutting me up.”    
  
A soft rumble of something resembling a chuckle makes its way out of Kazuya and Vanya grins at him again:    
  
“Are you hungry?”    
  


* * *

  
  
And that is how Kazuya ends up in Vanya’s small kitchen in the rooms behind the dojo’s training hall. The whole place is old and almost ascetic, with only the bare necessities in terms of furniture and even personal items that the young man has.   
  
So far, Kazuya has only noticed an embroidered cushion on the old sofa, a matryoshka doll, and a vase with wildflowers on the coffee table as items that speak of any individuality. Vanya pulls out a pot from the fridge and places it on the stove.   
  
Kazuya is sitting on one of the two chairs at the kitchen table, craning his neck toward the small living room:   
  
“So, you are Russian.”    
  
“Did the doll give me away?” Vanya teases, cutting a few slices of bread and preparing two bowls for the stew he is warming.    
  
“What are you doing here?”    
  
“The same thing you are, I suppose. Looking for something worthwhile to do.”    
  
“Don’t think you know what I am doing.”    
  
Vanya hides his smile by turning his back to Kazuya and grabbing two spoons from the drawer:   
  
“Alright. Well, I am looking for something worthwhile. I thought I might as well come here and put those years of studying Chinese to good use.”    
  
Kazuya hums, moving his elbows from the table to make room for the food Vanya serves. The dish itself is simple, some sort of thick beef and vegetable stew, but it smells delicious. 

  
Vanya puts the now-empty pot in the sink and joins him at the table.    
  
“ прия́тного аппети́та.” Vanya chirps and Kazuya waits for him to take the first bite before trying the stew himself. Hm. Not bad.    
  
“Have you ever considered joining a fighting tournament?” He asks and Vanya chuckles, politely swallowing his bite before answering:   
  
“No, I have no use for that. We had some of those back home, Seryozha participated even before he became the big mean military dude…” He shrugs:   
  
“I just never saw the appeal.”    
  
Kazuya’s eyes narrow:   
  
“Seryozha?”    
  
Vanya gets back up and opens the overhead cabinet:   
  
“You want some water?”    
  
Kazuya accepts with a grunt and waits for Vanya to get settled again. 

  
“Seryozha is my brother. Sergei.” He chuckles, although it sounds sad, even to Kazuya’s insensitive ears:   
  
“You said I talk too much. I always used to say it is because I talk for both of us. He hardly ever does.”    
  
Kazuya grips the spoon tighter, now knowing exactly who Vanya’s brother is. Vanya doesn’t seem to notice that, staring at his food:   
  
“He used to talk… I was so young when he stopped that I don’t even remember his voice much.”    
  
He shrugs, forcing a smile on his face:   
  
“Water under the bridge, I suppose.”    
  
They eat in silence for a while and Kazuya doesn’t know what on Earth possessed him to ask what he does next:   
  
“Why did he stop?”    
  
Vanya shakes his head, his face hardening from the boyish grin for the first time since Kazuya met him and he now sees the family resemblance, cursing himself for not having noticed it before:   
  
“I don’t want to talk about that. Why did you ask me about fighting tournaments?”    
  
Kazuya feels a surge of annoyance at his evasion, his red eye glowing menacingly:   
  
“Because staying here and teaching worthless scrubs is a waste of your potential.”    
  
The serious look on Vanya’s face disappears as he laughs again:   
  
“Is it now? I would say that any great fighter once used to be a scrub. Probably even you.”    
  
Kazuya bends the spoon with how he grips it, resisting the urge to choke Vanya again:   
  
“Watch your mouth.” He snarls and Vanya pays no mind to his anger:   
  
“It’s not an insult. You just have to be a beginner before you achieve greatness.”    
  
“So you say, but you holed yourself in here, where there is no greatness to be found.”    
  
“I disagree,” replies Vanya, finishing his stew:   
  
“There is utmost greatness in choosing your own path. And I have chosen mine. Despite all expectations, expectations that even you, who barely know me, seem to have.”    
  
He gets up to wash their bowls, straightening out Kazuya’s spoon in the process:    
  
“My brother is a military man. Obediently following in the family’s footsteps. If that is greatness, I don’t want it. I don’t follow orders and I am not a tool. Not if I can help it.”    
  
He delivers the last line ominously, starting the water and grabbing a dish sponge:    
  
“But, we keep talking about me. Where is your greatness?”    
  
Kazuya is silent for a while, evaluating whether Vanya is mocking him and wondering when did he start giving this brat the benefit of the doubt:   
  
  
“Do you really not know who I am?”    
  
Vanya shrugs with another audible smile:   
  
“Am I supposed to? Are you a celebrity waiting out a scandal? The dust to settle?”    
  
Even if Vanya is teasing, that is not too far from the truth and Kazuya shrugs:   
  
“Something like that.”    
  
“Well, I am sorry I do not know who you are. I don’t watch TV or use the internet all that much. The signal is horrible here. So, are you an actor?”    
  
“No.” Kazuya offers nothing more, still carefully considering whether Vanya is pretending when the younger man turns the water off and wipes his hands on a clean rag hung from a small hook on the wall:   
  
“Your left eye is interesting. I’ve seen people wear contacts before, but yours actually glows. How did you manage that?”    
  
Kazuya smirks at him menacingly as Vanya sits back at the table:   
  
“Maybe I have a brother, too.”    
  
“What does having a brother have to do with your eye?”    
  
Kazuya chooses to ignore this perfectly reasonable question:   
  
“I have two brothers, in fact. Neither of them is much of a real one.”    
  
“Hmmm. How come?”    
  
Kazuya has no idea why he is indulging this brat’s curiosity, but he apparently is:    
  
“One is adopted and the other is a half-brother I only learned of a couple of years ago.”    
  
“Oh. So, are you close with either of them now?”    
  
“No. Never have been. I hate them both.”    
  
There is silence after that and even Kazuya can notice that Vanya is uncomfortable:    
  
“Why?”    
  
“You ask too many questions.”    
  
“Because you never say much. You have any other family?”    
  
Kazuya’s teeth grit, his eye brightening:    
  
“A son. He is about your age.”    
  
Another pause and Kazuya can see that Vanya’s posture in the chair is tensing as if he’s getting ready to bolt at any moment:   
  
“Do you also hate him?”    
  
Kazuya never expected that question to be so difficult. Does he hate Jin? He hates the Mishima blood in him, he hates it in himself, too, he hates that he doesn’t know whether he should hate the Hachijo blood, now, too, after learning who, or what, Kazumi was, but does he truly hate Jin?    
  
“I don’t know.”    
  
He finally replies, entirely truthfully and Vanya just nods.    
  
“Does he hate you?”    
  
That is easier.   
  
“Yes.”    
  
He’s never seen this particular look on Vanya’s face, but he has on Sergei’s. It is the same look the soldier has when he detonates an aircraft with his enemy on it:   
  
“Well, in that case, one of two things will happen. You will either never see him again, or you will only see him one more time. One last time. Depends on what kind of a man he is.” 

  
Kazuya doesn’t know what kind of a man Jin is, either. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens :3

Kazuya had disappeared.    
A part of Jin hoped that his father had also met his end in the fight with Akuma, but he knew better. Even if he couldn’t sense the stirring in his blood that unmistakably told him he was alive, he knew better than to presume Kazuya dead. He had arisen before from what was only debris and ash. This time would be no different.    
  
Jin liked to think of himself as a good person deep down beneath his curse. Or rather, he liked to think himself the embodiment of his mother’s legacy and that part of him thus felt shame at wishing Kazuya dead.    
He soothed his conscience quickly and frequently, repeating to himself that Kazuya was evil, that Kazuya was beyond saving and had been even before he was born, that Kazuya was the one who robbed him of a normal life, of a family, of happiness, and of future.    
  
That Kazuya deserved no mercy.    
Even if he did, allowing him and the cursed bloodline to live would mean the world will never be safe. That was why Jin simply had to kill him and then kill himself. This must end.    
  
According to tournament rules, Mishima Zaibatsu now belonged to Kazuya, and Jin knew that his father was in this exact position before he was even born, a position he reveled in and readily accepted and occupied. Yet now, even though he was the CEO of the company, he was nowhere to be found.    
  
Jin had pressured Lee and Lars for information, and even though he initially assumed they knew more than they were telling him, he couldn’t prove as much and in the end, had to accept that even they knew nothing.    
  
He presumed their information networks would be more developed than this.    
  
The world, or rather,  _ his  _ world was in disarray. The Williams sisters were both at large, the contract with Nina terminated, and she, as per her habit, now worried about her sister. Jin had hoped to track Nina, who would lead him to Anna, who might then lead him to Kazuya, and he hated to admit as much, but he was no match for the two skilled assassins when it came to spy work.    
  
He was growing restless, to the point where he had no patience left even for Alisa, the poor robot who meant well and was probably his only friend left, no matter how pathetic that sounded.    
  
He cut off ties with Xiaoyu. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into his mess. Xiaoyu had a future and he wanted her to get the chance to live it.    
  
And then, there was Hwoarang.   
Tugging at all the strings in Jin that still bound him to his Kazama honor, he felt guilt bubbling in his throat every time he thought of the young Korean man.    
Hwoarang saved his life, losing an eye in the process, and as much as Jin tried to think that now they were even after what he did for Hwoarang after the fourth tournament, he knew that was not the case.    
  
There was no real risk for him to help Hwoarang.    
But Hwoarang was just a human. A human who chose to protect him rather than protect himself.    
He very well could have died, shielding Jin from men who, all things considered, had every right to want him dead.   
  
Jin was a demonic abomination, why wouldn’t they want to rid the world of him?    
Especially after what he did to lure Azazel out.   
  
And Hwoarang knew what Jin did.    
Hwoarang lost his mentor, his only family, because of what Jin did.    
  
As much as it was necessary for the good of the world, Hwoarang had every right to hate Jin for it. Everyone did.    
Jin Kazama knew that, no matter how inevitable, what he did was not  _ right.  _ It was merely the only thing he could do.    
And with him looking at everything in the long run, he didn’t regret choosing to be public enemy number one.    
There would be no public left had he not chosen this path.    
  
He ditched the offers by Lee and Lars to stay in their safe quarters as soon as they retrieved him. Safe from what? Who could even challenge him? It was others who needed protection from him. 

So, he now lived in a nondescript apartment in Tokyo, his life a routine of trying and failing to locate his father with all the resources at his allies’ disposal.    
  
He knows that something is not right as soon as he exits the elevator on his floor.    
He also knows who he will see and swallows the weird thumping of his heart down his tight throat even as he stares into his singular dark eye.    
  
Hwoarang is standing in his living room, in ripped jeans and a white T-shirt, a blue leather jacket over his shoulders:    
  
“Heard ya were alive, but it’s nice to see ya with my own eye, Kazama.”    
  
He’s leaning against a nearly empty bookshelf, his familiar cocksure smirk firmly on his face.    
Jin’s fingers itch uncontrollably as he tries to steady his heartbeat, his breathing, every impulse in his body that wishes to rush toward Hwoarang and grab him.    
  
He becomes aware that he has no desire to fight the other man and it scares him.    
Why grab him, then?    
  
_ To make sure that he is really alive.  _   
  
“Why are you here?” He finally squeezes out, not tearing his gaze from Hwoarang’s face.    
  
Hwoarang pushes himself off of the side of the shelf with the sole of his biker boot (of course he didn’t take his shoes off, what did Jin even expect?!) and pulls out a packet of cigarettes and an ornate metal lighter. Jin doesn’t even try to tell him he doesn’t allow smoking inside because when has Hwoarang ever listened to Jin?    
  
Hwoarang takes a long drag of his cigarette (Marlboro, the man was always trash like that) and chuckles in the same, old, mocking fashion that Jin is used to. That he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when he hears it.    
  
“Why wouldn’t I come and see my favorite asshole?”    
  
“You only need a mirror to do as much. You have the flexibility.”    
  
Hwoarang laughs again, this time more gleefully, and Jin’s stomach does that odd little flip that it only ever did around him, the flip that he keeps telling himself is annoyance and disgust.    
  
“Ya finally learned the art of banter, then?” 

  
He grabs a little glass bowl that Jin keeps his keys in to use as an ashtray:    
  
“I was itching for a fight.”    
  
Jin frowns, crossing his arms. He waits, and, as predicted, Hwoarang doesn’t like that:    
  
“What?! Why are you looking at me like that, smartass? Why’d ya think I came here? To see your ugly snout?”    
  
Jin scoffs, shaking his head:    
  
“Normally you ambush me on the street when you want a fight. This kind of cramped space is not your style.”    
  
Hwoarang takes another drag of his cigarette, this one more pointed, and shrugs just a tad too hard:   
  
“‘Twas cold outside and I wanted to check out how the mighty heirs lived. To be honest, I’m disappointed.”    
  
He gestures at the inside pocket of his jacket and Jin only then sees an envelope peeking out of it:    
  
“Here’s the deal, Kazama. We fight, you win, I give you this envelope. The contents of which may interest you.”   
  
Jin tells himself that Hwoarang could be bluffing. The envelope could be empty or contain blank papers, for all he knows.   
But, it also could really be something useful and all he would have to do is fight Hwoarang for it. He has fought Hwoarang many times before. What’s one more?   
  
So, he assumes his fighting stance, and Hwoarang cannot hide the way his face lights up at that. He puts out his cigarette and pushes an ottoman out of the way.    
  
They fight in the cramped living room, neither of them able to swing freely in the limited space, which causes them to soon start wrestling and crumple into a heap of limbs on the floor, Jin trying to put Hwoarang in a headlock and Hwoarang trying to avoid it by going for an armbar on Jin.    
Hwoarang still smells the same. Metal, gasoline, fresh sweat, and basic cologne, just some cheap one you could buy at a gas station. His hair is softer now that he is not dyeing it anymore and Jin thinks he also might have gotten a slight tan. He throws those flexible limbs around as vigorously as ever, and Jin cannot help but admire it, like every time he fights him. Hwoarang, for all the rebellious, happy-go-lucky, insufferable charade he puts up, is the most disciplined and creative fighter Jin has ever encountered.    
  
He tries to make Hwoarang submit by using the chain connecting the lapels of his jacket to hold it over his shoulders, he presses it into his neck and Hwoarang gasps, aiming a knee at Jin’s crotch and turning the tables once Jin has to jump back to avoid it. He pins Jin down, their noses almost touching as Hwoarang laughs breathlessly in his face, all teeth and mint and cigarettes. His elbow is on Jin’s throat, a leg wedged between his, and he holds himself upright by pinning Jin’s wrists to the wooden floor:    
  
“What’s the matter, asshole? Not even me handicapping myself in this chicken coop of your living room is enough for you to defeat me?”    
  
His eyepatch has shifted in the commotion and Jin now clearly sees his closed right eye. His gaze probably lingers on it for too long because Hwoarang’s left eye flashes in anger and he scowls, yelling:    
  
“What are ya staring at?!”    
  
By all accounts, Hwoarang is now, and forever will be, disfigured. He lost that eye rescuing an abomination, a creature he would be more beautiful than even without both eyes and Jin feels a lump in his throat. It’s all his fault.    
  
“I never thanked you for saving me.” 

  
This catches Hwoarang off guard, eyebrows shooting up and mouth gaping slightly and they stare at each other until Hwoarang’s cheeks are pink and he remembers to scowl again:    
  
“I didn’t do it for your gratitude.”    
  
“Then why?”    
  
Hwoarang gets off of him and onto his feet, throwing the envelope on Jin’s chest and readjusting his eyepatch:    
  
“Because I am not like you.”    
  
He turns to leave, taking out another cigarette and Jin gets up as well, grabbing his wrist:    
  
“I didn’t win.” He tries to hand the envelope back and Hwoarang tugs his arm out of Jin’s grasp:    
  
“Consider it a housewarming gift, then.”    
  
“Why did you save me?” Jin insists, realizing that it has been gnawing at him ever since it happened and Hwoarang groans in frustration, brows still firmly knitted together:    
  
“Well, did ya see anyone else volunteerin’?!”    
  
“Why not let me die? You think I should, don’t you?”    
  
Hwoarang pauses, studying Jin’s face for a few moments before throwing his head back in a laugher more resembling a cackle. Jin oddly doesn’t mind it and is angered by it at the same time.    
  
“Get it through yer thick Kazama skull, dumbass. I. Am. Not. Like. You.”    
  
“I know that! You don’t have a literal monster lurking in you at all times, just waiting to take over you and destroy everything in its wake! I KNOW THAT!”    
  
He has never lost his temper like this. Jin doesn’t shout, Jin doesn’t argue. But there is something about Hwoarang that makes him feel not as uncomfortable to do so as he otherwise would. He doesn’t have time to dissect that feeling at the moment when Hwoarang is once again in his face, an accusatory finger poking his chest:    
  
“Do you get off on pitying yerself, Kazama? Is that it? “Oh, woe is me, woe is me, I got a demon inside me to excuse all the shitty choices I make! I will never take responsibility, it’s the demon, if only I wasn’t like this, WOE IS FUCKING ME!” GROW THE FUCK UP!”    
  
Droplets of saliva spray Jin in the face as Hwoarang’s finger stabbing becomes painful:    
  
“Ya think nobody else has been dealt a shitty hand?! Ya think nobody else lost everything they cared about?! Ya think we can all just let ourselves be that worst possible person we can be and do whatever we want?! That is how this precious world you so claim you need to save will end! With everyone making the shittiest choices just because that’s easier than actually pulling yerself by yer bootstraps and doing what is right! I might have lost an eye but it is you who is fucking blind to everyone around you trying to show you the right way! Wang! Xiaoyu! Yer mother! Alexandersson! My master! Myself?! How many of us have to die to raise one fucking Kazama Jin?!”    
  
Jin is stunned into silence as Hwoarang goes off on him, every fiber of his being trembling in shame and bubbling anger of the demon he tries to keep at bay. Because Hwoarang is coming for that demon. He’s not coming for Jin.    
  
“I saved you because you are not hopeless. And I am still waiting for you to prove me right.”    
  
With a deep exhale, Hwoarang stops abusing Jin’s chest and seemingly deflates, having said his peace and they stand there, Hwoarang’s cigarette in the ashtray long forgotten and starting to smell from burning to the filter and Hwoarang puts it out with an expletive, lighting another one and throwing himself onto Jin’s sofa.    
  
Silence rules the room for the longest time and Jin finally murmurs a soft “how” that he thinks Hwoarang didn’t even hear until the other man chuckles, blowing out smoke rings toward the ceiling:    
  
“Stop being a fucking cunt, that’s how. Yer not a Mishima, yer not a Kazama, yer Jin and Jin needs to do what Jin thinks is right. Just how I did what I thought was right that day.”    
  
He pats his eyepatch and laughs again:    
  
“I wanna fight Jin for many years to come. See if he ever gets good enough to even make me break a sweat. I can’t do that if Jin insists on some poetic sacrifice out of his stupidity.”    
  
His tone is back to playfulness, but there is a tinge of something warm beneath it and Jin’s stomach does that odd little flip again. So, he does the only thing he can think of. Accepts Hwoarang’s playfulness:    
  
“So, you’re doing all this for a sparring partner.”    
  
“Duh! Whaddya think I’m doing this for? Undying love for ya?”    
  
The flip becomes a double one and Jin shrugs:    
  
“I don’t know, that’s a great length to go for a sparring partner.”    
  
Hwoarang has closed his eye, still facing the ceiling:    
  
“The sparring partner I want. And I always get what I want. Plus, I want some golden head from you.”    
  
Jin nearly chokes on his own spit as he sputters:    
  
“Some what?!”    
  
“A trophy! I had to yeet mine to save you after the third tourney, remember? It got all chipped and banged up! You owe me another one.”    
  
He finally looks at Jin, eyebrows wiggling:    
  
“What kinda head did you think I meant, dumbass?”    
  
  


* * *

  
  
Kazuya discovered a new hobby he enjoyed. Landscaping. He first started getting annoyed with the state the surroundings of Vanya’s dojo were in, all overgrown and messy, but since he wouldn’t allow himself to offer the young man any help, he had to be satisfied with working on his own yard. The yard was medium-sized, with some peach trees and shrubbery peppered around it, along with a nice stone path, and even a birdbath, and all of those things probably looked beautiful with a proper pair of hands to maintain them, but were now getting out of control, with the property owner only having mowed the grass before Kazuya moved in.    
  
He was in the middle of trimming the shrubs with a large pair of shears when he heard footsteps coming up the hill.    
He raises his gaze, still holding the shears, and sees Vanya jogging up toward him, wearing a white tank-top and a pair of gym shorts, with a backpack on his back.    
  
His hair is tied into a ponytail that swings left and right behind him and he waves at Kazuya, stopping before his gate:    
  
“Hey there, oldtimer! Working hard?”    
  
Kazuya tries to scowl at him, he really does, but between Vanya’s huge, dazzling grin and the way the tank-top is see-through, being drenched in sweat, he doesn’t know where to look:   
  
“I told you not to call me that.”    
  
Vanya clicks his tongue, wiping his forehead with his cotton wristband, his muscular, yet lithe chest, heaving:   
  
“But oldtimers are the best! Classically beautiful, reliable, prestigious, of good quality! You should take it as a compliment!”    
  
Kazuya frowns and huffs at him, putting the shears away and crossing his arms over his chest:    
  
“What are you doing here?”    
  
He might be imagining it, but Vanya seems to be staring at him, too, with how he is shirtless, skin glistening in sweat. It makes his abdomen clench in an unfamiliar fashion. It is at the same time annoying and exciting.    
  
Vanya points at his backpack with his thumb:   
  
“I finally managed to make some blackberry wine and I realized that I have nobody to drink it with, and drinking alone is just sad, so I brought it here.”    
  
Kazuya remembers he smelled some alcohol on Vanya’s breath a few days ago and wonders if he had been drinking alone that day:    
  
“Fine, I’ll drink your blackberry wine after I finish this. Make yourself useful and gather these branches.”    
  
Vanya laughs briefly, but obliges, finally entering the yard and putting his backpack aside, grabbing the trash bag Kazuya points him at and starting to collect the cut off branches and putting them in the bag.    
  
They work in silence, but years of training and his innate instincts make Kazuya completely aware that the boy is looking at him. He can feel his gaze rove over the muscles in his back, his massive shoulders, down his spine and to the two indentations above his ass. He doubles down on his work, never tearing his own gaze from it.    
He never had any problems looking at anyone before.    
  
That’s not entirely true.    
He used to not like looking at Jun for prolonged periods of time, either.    
But that was so long ago, he was young, he was a different person back then, and Jun was special. She was so serene, so beautiful, as if she were cut from marble, and Kazuya always felt like looking at her for too long would somehow upset her, would cause her perfect face to scrunch in… disgust?   
He couldn’t handle it when his staring would cause her to look at him, either.    
The disgust he was expecting never came, but there was something about her gaze that Kazuya thought was nearly physically painful.    
It was as if she could read him just by looking at him. It was as if she could know all his deepest secrets, just like that.    
He hated it.    
  
And now, decades later, those old itches start burning just beneath his skin again.    
Kazuya never stopped to consider his sexuality.    
Of course, over the years, he had slept with many men, and even more women. Most of which he never even asked for their names. He never cared. Kazuya Mishima had no time for relationships, no desire for a connection, nothing positive to give.    
Even he was aware that there should be positive things in a relationship.   
And he was the worst possible person when that was concerned.    
  
All those people should be happy about his self-awareness. After all, staying in his vicinity could only kill them once the Devil came out to play. This way, Kazuya was sparing them.    
  
But now… the beast is not even stirring and hadn’t done as much ever since that day in the volcano. Heihachi, and then that demonic assassin sent by his own mother…    
Kazuya briefly had thought that knowing all that would finally push him into devil hood past the point of no return. And yet…    
He had no idea what was going on.    
And when Kazuya has no idea what is going on, he becomes restless.    
  
He grits his teeth and straightens up, finally done with the last shrub:   
  
“Why do you keep staring at me?”    
  
His back is still to Vanya and the young man collects the last branches and ties the bag:    
  
“Returning the favor.”    
  
“What?” Kazuya grits his teeth and Vanya laughs:   
  
“Oh, come on, old-timer, you don’t think I’m blind, do you? You stare at me every chance you get! It’s only fair to return the favor. Besides, you’re very nice to look at!”    
  
Kazuya huffs a frustrated breath, even though there is that odd tightening of the abdomen again:    
  
“What are you trying to do?”    
  
  
He hears Vanya picking up his backpack:    
  
“Nothing. There’s time.”    
  
Kazuya now turns to look at him, and the glare he gives him would have terrified the living daylights out of everyone else, but Vanya just smiles:    
  
“You’re really something else, old-timer. I think not even you realize how amazing you are.”    
  


* * *

  
  
Sergei is standing in his office, looking through the massive window at the rooftops and streets of Moscow, where cars and pedestrians are milling about like little ants.    
He’s humming an old melody, his wrists crossed behind his back when he hears a knock on his door. He grunts in response and one of his subordinates opens the door, saluting:    
  
“Sir! I have urgent updates for you!”    
  
Sergei turns to the man, motioning for him to come closer and hand him the file he is holding. The man obliges and Sergei dismisses him with a hand gesture, prompting the soldier to salute again, which Sergei responds in turn to.    
  
He waits until the man had closed the door behind himself to sit at his desk and open the file.    
  
His icy blue eyes flash in pleasure when he sees what it contains.   
So, that is where this little birdie has been hiding.    
  
He chuckles to himself. Time to go bird-hunting. 


End file.
